


Black Dove

by Milky_Maid



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: 1940's, Adultery, Black Character(s), Cheating, Dancing and Singing, Dating, Dirty Dancing, Dirty Talk, Discrimination, Drama & Romance, Engagement, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Inappropriate Humor, Lies, Love Confessions, Men Crying, Older Man/Younger Woman, Period-Typical Racism, Post-World War II, Segregation, Sex, Symbolism, performing, show, showgirl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-02-18 15:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18702748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milky_Maid/pseuds/Milky_Maid
Summary: 1946The war has finally ended and now it’s time for a little love.“He was a famous man down from Chicago way.”He was a famous actor before the war and has comeback seeking his fortunes again, making his way down to the city of sin, Los Angeles. Taking some time to celebrate his return he accidentally finds a diary belonging to a Miss Abigail Malcolm…his good heart wanted to return it to her. But when he snooped beyond the front page he discovered her undying love for his talent and his kind acts in the public eye were scrawled over that page; so moving and heartfelt he had meet her.He just didn’t know her little secret…She’s black.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THIS WARNING ITS SERIOUS:
> 
> This story might be the most controversial thing I could write. :/ 
> 
> Guys, I plan to hopefully make this an extremely short story, no larger then maybe 5 chapters. This will test my writing abilities I believe. 
> 
> Also note: HOW DARE YOU! if any of you lilly-livered pansies believe "Milky, you're white, you can't write in the point of veiw of a POC character." I will smack you so hard, youre asses won't be able to sit on Thomas' lap. The colour of my skin should never and will never stop me from writing in the point of veiw of anyone; we are all humans and we are part of the human race- if that "changes" because of skin colour...girl...you have been listeing in to some discriminating news or something. I mean I could always skin myself if that makes you happy....would I be any more or less of a person? nope...except the fleshy skin on the floor.
> 
> This is a story based in a time (1940s) where racism was big; my statment isnt saying "There's no racism today"- what I am saying is that there was a larger community and discrimation scale than there visual is now. So...I do warn you, the term "Nigger" and "Negress/Negro" and "Black" (the one I use and probably shouldnt.) will be written to reference characters by all people with skin on their bodies...all...even Thomas. 
> 
> If any of you have an issue/s with my warnings and statements, you can leave it in the comments- I won't stop you- but I also won't care....
> 
> I like historical romances and I believe women/ men with all different shades of skin should feel included into historical romances where tragity always lurks. I write this for my friends- yes it wasnt requested by them, but they enjoyed reading ASIL and I felt that they should feel special. REPRESENTATION PEOPLE! LET ME WORK!
> 
> The relationship between my female POC and Thomas is not to be scene as a racial kink. If that is what you came for, please rethink the choice- this will not be depicting any 'black fetish' from Thomas alright? the main character is a black "Show girl" within an establishment of called "exotic women" refering to the idea that any type of woman can be a fetish whether their Ginger, Black, French, Asian... BUT TOM SEES BEYOND SKIN!!!
> 
> PEACE!

1946

The raindrop glided down the window into its sill as the bus drove deeper into the city. Abigail sighed, she never did like the back of the bus; it always made her feel a slight tad nauseas; but for the sake of that pretty white girl four seats ahead she was moved back. The child might’ve been only ten and was ruder than a naked saint Mary.

She was cussing and spitting at her own Mama who should’ve belted her right there in front of all the passengers. Her Mama was merely a quiet woman with a brown hat on top off her golden head and fox coat, paid for by her rich husbands’ money. Her husband did the beating, so while the girl was her Mama, she did as much wicked as she could muster. Obviously Abigail never knew if that was true, but she had watched enough folks to read their actions and piece together a lifestyle close enough to reality.

The thing Abigail didn’t understand was the timing. What was this little girl doing out of bed at this time? She should’ve been fed and in bed by half past six, and yet it was fifteen minutes to eight. Abigail shook her head at the sight. Her lips pursed in disappointment of the mothers raising skills.

_Mama would’ve tanned me with a spoon if I ever so thought of using those words._

Lacing her fingers, she closed her eyes and daydreamed about that handsome white man on the picture show last week. Gosh, his eyes were surely bluer than the beaches ocean. She couldn’t truly tell from the black and white image but from the greying on screen she imagined it so.

In the picture he was called Percy, but in the real world he was Thomas.

He was a gorgeous man and his voice was strong while so gentle and sweet; like a warm coffee in the middle of an icy winter. His hair was dark but she suspected or actually wished it was blonde, a sandy kind. She could image her name on his lips, over and over and prayed to god that one day they’d make him kiss a woman named Abigail, just to hear him say it on screen.

She saved two weeks of her pay money to take herself and her Fiancé just to watch it. She never would ever confess that she went and saw it for Tom. For those fifty five minutes of the film she sat back and smiled, dreaming that she was that young French woman who ran his office, the woman he kissed in the end as the black surrounding circle closed over them to read “The end” in the beautiful cursive. Life was splendid.

Dede asked her what it meant, as he was illiterate and when she told him, he was glad to go. He didn’t understand the joys of watching a show about two white folks who lived in a tall building, talking words he never really grasped.

Her fiancé Demore Barnes was a simple man, a boy she grew up with in her small community. He was learning how to be a carpenter and began making good cash from it. Always handy and resourceful, especially when he stepped onto her Daddy’s porch one evening to ask for her hand with a metal nut for a ring. He was a nice and honest young man and everybody trusted he would respect her on their little ‘date’ which he did, no chauffeur needed but black from their community surrounded them in their seats at the show.

She sighed again, she loved Dede, but she also loved the white man.

Her eyes opened to the bus squealing to a stop. Funnily enough it was her turn again to stand up out of her seat, except this time she was walking to the front of the bus to get off. Passing her way up, the rude little girl spat at her and screeched “Get gone nigger!”

Unprovoked and unnecessary did this child act out. Abigail would’ve slapped her across the nose if she wasn’t so pale, it’s what any woman in her street would’ve done to her. Despite her disciplinary desires, she stepped off the bus and watched as other coloured folks followed off behind her. The town was loud, cars honking and ladies laughing with men singing away the sorrows of life. Lights flashing in a range of reds and yellows. The city of sin was always alive and awake, not a moment of rest here.

Quickly she stepped to the alleyway, down to the back of the club. The lights of the town didn’t follow her here. Stepping up the stairs and inside the door she was met with more noise. The reason why she enjoyed working in the Arabian Palace of Extraordinary Exotics, because everyone was different but all treated the same. All kinds of people were welcome to see the show, just a quarter to see it. 

Walking through the door, she passed some dancers and heavy men taking a quick smoke before their shows began. Abigail all but bolted to the small room she would call her own. She was happy she didn’t have to share one, she won that privilege a year back when she did the splits in front of some sponsors of the club owner. It was her own dressing room so to speak. She worked fast. The sooner you were in costume the more time you got to stretch.

Shimming out of her clothes she slipped herself into a very provocative white one piece. Her neckline very low and her legs exposed for miles. While tying and setting on the blonde wig, a sharp rap on her door startled her.

“Just a moment,” She pleaded before opening the door a jar. Behind the wood were two smiling broads. Her friends that nobody knew about, friends who weren’t Negro. She let them in instantly; yes, she didn’t like the idea of sharing a dressing room for the idea of being completely nude but if it was only between the three of them she would be happy as daisies.

These three were the stars of the club, the main trio of the palace. Each a soloist and only once had they all performed together in a dance.

The ginger settled herself on the bench next to where Abigail had folded her clothing, while the short Asian girl leaned against the door in her short kimono gown.

Pulling up her garter belt Abigail noticed her friends still in their costumes. “Just finished your show, girls?”

The two women giggled. The one leaning against the wall winked.

“Watch out for young kid on stage right, he is grabby.” China said with her broken English and a gesture of grabbing her chest. China wasn’t her real name, but it was her show title and everybody called her that or Jap whore, the war had been tough and considering a Korean girl like her posing as a Japanese geisha had taken a negative toll on her and her wages.

Red Fox spoke up in her thick Brooklyn accent, “Don’t worry China, I can always rough ‘em up for you if they cause any more trouble.” Punching her own hand with a wide grin. She had come half way across the country just to get this opportunity. Instead of getting the Hollywood stardom she dreamt of, she was left on the side walk besides the very club. The owner let her audition and she got the job instantly...Abigail suspected it was because the girl had fucked the club owner on the same night, politely she never asked if that rumour was true. Red fox sighed and tore off her cat eared headband and threw it into the corner.

“That bad huh?” Abigail grinned, slipping onto her arms a pair of constructed wings made of goose feathers. She painted her lips with red and bashed her dark face with rogue.

“We thought we’d come see you before your show, big crowd tonight. Some old troops I suspect.” Red fox warned, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a match. Blowing some smoke in the air, Abigail watched China’s nose wrinkle.

The black haired beauty started to wipe of some of her face paint with a rag beside Abigail as she murmured, “Handsome soldiers.”

Abigail laughed at the sweet tone of her friends comment, “Do they like niggers?” Turning around she lifted her leg onto the bench next to the ginger. Bending forward she felt the cracks of relief in her muscles. She began praying in her head that she would be able to keep up with the band again.

“They all came to see you, so I think so,” Red fox puffed.

This was the first time that she had heard that kind of news…she thought red fox was jesting so she laughed. Bending back until her palms hit the floor she stated jokingly, “Must want to suck my ring off and ask for my gumbo recipe if their coming for me.”

This was something that even China understood by the way she choked gave a glass shattering laugh, “You so funny! Stop! You so funny!”

Twisting her engagement nut off of her finger she placed it down on top of her folded clothes. Abigail smiled to her friends, they had dreams just as hopeless as hers and in the end they were the only ones who understood the way she felt in the way of being an outcast.

A round of clappings and applause upstairs roared from the guests. Clapping her own hands and rubbing them together she looked to both her companions, the smile growing wider and wider as she said, “Well girls, I think it’s showtime.”

* * *

 

Rushing out of her room and down the halls to the stage stairs, she watched the curtain closing on the previous show of ‘Indian Hercules: the Strong Man of the Lakota.’ He nodded to her as they crossed paths. The stage props were quickly being changed behind her as she posed on a fake cloud made from pillows and a swing. Standing a top of the swing, she lifted her leg up and around one side of the rope and held onto the other for support and balance. Her white “wings” were soft against her arms as she held her breath.

The lights turned off and slowly began circling around the curtains until falling to the centre. The lift in her stomach had her excited. She moved her lips, curling in and out to loosen up a little more.

_Elegant, you are a cloud, soft and elegant, graceful and…_

The club owners voice shouted to the crowd and a soft drum roll began to play from the band, “Ladies and gentleman may I present to you the girl you’ve all been waiting for, the little black Belle beauty of the south, the sweet sugar of the cane fields, that little darlin’ that’ll never make you miss the missus at home...The one, The only!...”

Abigails’ brown eyes widened as the curtain began to drag open.

“Black Dove!”

_...beautiful..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Performing has its perks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is a real 'Dirty Blues' from 1935, sung by the glorious Lucille Bogan called "Shave 'em dry."

A holler of hoots and whistles called from the audience. Abigail had trouble seeing them, the spotlight from the roof blinding her slightly as she put on her actress smile.

Slightly swinging forward she opened her mouth and cooed, “Hi there! Come to see the show?”

The audience of mostly men shouted back “Hell yes!”

Slowly stepping off the “cloud” she laughed and clapped her hands; a signature move to tell the band to start playing. They were slow and with that, they slowly got into the groove of explicit lyrics.

Tip toeing to the front of the stage she waved to all the men who looked up to her in awe and arousal by the way they rubbed the fronts of their trousers. Some were white, some black and even some were red.

She kicked her feet from side to side as she gave a sweet southern accent, far more drawling than her own, “I got nipples on my titties, big as the end of my thumb.”

She held her thumb out to make sure all the audience saw it. she winked and patted her hand down her waist to further cup her crotch, her thumb and pinky tickling the sides of her chocolate thighs.

She sang a little louder now, “I got somethin' between my legs'll make a dead man come!”

All the men and women in the crowd cackled and hooted to her. some she noticed below her feet were biting their lips.

She bent down to them and asked with her lyrical tone still going, “Oh daddy, baby won't you shave 'em dry?”

A young man quiet innocently called back “Yessum!”

Her hands clapped again and gestured with a ‘shooing motion’ “Now, draw it out!” while she quickly got to the ground, belly to stage. Her elbows lifted her up as she began to wiggle her legs up into the air and back now, softly rubbing against the wooden flooring.

“Want you to grind me baby, grind me until I cry.”

Rolling onto her back she threw her legs high into the air, jolting herself ask she said “fucked” from her line “Say I fucked all night,” while she stood back up, she bent down so the her head was between her spread legs, showing over the very lovely behind she had, “and all the night before baby.”

Standing straight up she spun around before pointing a jerking finger to the crowd, “And I feel just like I wanna, fuck some more!”

She marched across the left side of the stage, mimicking a salute to the soldiers she knew were here but she couldn’t see.

“Oh great God daddy,” she turned around to the right and repeated her salute. “Grind me honey and shave me dry.”

Grasping the thick red curtain she proceed to place it in between her legs and use the tassel rope; made for decoration, to whip herself teasingly, “And when you hear me holler baby! Want you to shave it dry!”

She kicked a foot behind her as she twisted and cartwheeled to the centre of the stage.

Abigail flapped her hands, her wings flying softly while she gradually spread her legs farther and farther apart until her own centre reached the floor. When she ‘landed’ she acted a frown onto her face. The joke to the viewers’ eyes was her falling down rather than flying up, the audience cracked up. She placed her hands on her hips and jerked her chest up as she repeated, “I got nipples on my titties, big as the end of my thumb!”

Her hands flapped again and with her impressive, talent, patience and strength, she lifted herself up again just by using sheer leg muscles. She pointed to someone in the crowd she couldn’t see, only their silhouette as the made their way towards the bottom of the stage stairs, trying to leave.

“Daddy you say that's the kind of ‘em you want, and you can make 'em come, Oh, daddy shave me dry!” she screamed as she thrusted her hips forward like a man might when he’s loving a woman. She winked, “And I'll give you somethin' baby,” pointing harder at this shadow she sang deeply, “Swear it'll make you cry.”

She drifted away from her hidden victim and clicked her feet to the beat of the song, her feathers fanned across her body, swaying all around her as she slidfrom left to right. Stepping a couple steps backwards she found the swing as was rehearsed and sat back into it with a big push so the the swing would carry her high.

“Now if fuckin' was the thing, that would take me to heaven,” she pointed to the sky while her other hand held for dear life on the other rope, “I'd be fuckin' in the studio, till the clock strike eleven”

Shaking her chest a little bit more and spreading her legs apart, kicking from side to side, she smirked and giggled, “Oh daddy! daddy shave 'em dry! I would fuck you baby, honey I'd make you cry!”

Swinging high enough with the right momentum and support she launched herself off the flying swing into a perfect arabesque, only to get back into the explicit moves of touching her breasts, thighs and crotch.

“Now your nuts hang down like a damn bell sapper,” she covered her mouth with her hand in a quick ‘huh’ moment which was completely a joke and not at all real.

She grinned wickedly, “And your dick stands up like a steeple.” Before turning around and grasping her bottom cheeks covered by the white fabric of her costume, “Your goddam ass-hole stands open like a church door.” facing the audience her hands folded in as though praying and shaking her head for the pause before the band began playing again.

“Baby, won't you shave 'em dry!”

Spinning back around, away from the crowd, she performed with her back bending backwards until her palms hit the floor and that everything was upside down to her in her eyes.

“My back is made of whalebone,” her left hand slapped her crotch again while her right helped her up, “And my cock is made of brass.”

She took a deep breath and fluttered her wings a little bit more, “And my fuckin' is made for workin' men's two dollars” holding up two fingers as she sang this before reaching behind her back.

This was the moment they’d all been waiting for. The skin, the skin that was smoother than any ivory cream. Unclipping the back flap of her one piece, the fabric fell open to reveal her back bottom to the whole audience who squealed in excitement.

“Great God, ‘round to kiss my ass.” she slapped it with both her hands loudly. And finished off with spinning three times and falling back into her cloud swing, the flapping fabric covering her honey pot from the audience was what she was grateful for during this parade.

And as the curtains began to close, she watched as a few men in the front row stood up, clapping their hands enthusiastically, “Oh! Whoo, daddy, shave 'em dry!” she sang finally ending the performance, not the curtain.

Listening to her ‘fans’ she release a long and breathy sigh. Her heart was thumping and her knees ached. She now could be paid and go back home, maybe she’ll catch the tram this time around. Getting off her cloud and watching as the backstage workers rolled it up, she walked off stage, rebuttoning the bottom flap. She felt a little hot as it was, now she needed a drink of water and get out of her costume.

During this whole time she felt nothing on stage. It was all fake. She wasn’t happy but she wasn’t sad. She was just playing a raunchy character, Black Dove. When she first performed she felt so shy and disgusted with herself come Sunday, however she knew she wasn’t Black Dove. She was Miss Abigail Malcolm who just shared the same face. She never really wanted to do those things, Dede had suggested one time that they tried, just so that they knew what each one were doing but she declined. Abigail was a good girl and outside of show biz o the club that is exactly who she was.

None of her family or Negro friends or fiancé knew this was how she earned a living, they all believed that she worked down at the white neighbourhood, looking after rich old widows that just paid her well out of the kindness of their souls. She didn’t know what would happen if they ever found out. Thank god that they would never indulge themselves with adult entertainment like this.

Walking around a single corner to get to her room would change her life forever, this small corner made a big difference to everything she stood for and promised. One step around and she collided with a very tall man in uniform. Falling to the floor and hissing as the pain glided up her side, she noticed with blurry eyes that a hand was stuck right in front of her face.

When they cleared she saw heaven and hell combined. The softest smile and widest bluest eyes she’d ever seen. She pinned each one together and the familiarity they held until she gasped with horror and awe combined.

It was him!! The white man from the pictures!! Percy! Wait no...Thomas!

“I am so sorry ma’am, please take my hand; let me help you up.”

Whether it was the dehydration or the sheer shock of seeing the man she wished she could be with; she tilted her head back and fainted.

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkPCmIxv-3k>


	3. Chapter 3

The boat was rolling up to the pier. It had been a heavy weight on his shoulders, the war had ended, but at what cost? The cost of lost and killed friends. He didn’t know where his friend Ben was, he prayed for a week that they would see each other again, however deep down in his soul he felt that Ben never made it out of the camp. The Japanese had taken him and his friends, Australian and English soldiers as war prisoners. They were all forced to work night and day building rail way bridges along a sweltering rainforest, somewhere in New Guinea was what he was told.

When the news of the Japanese surrender reached his ears, he couldn’t believe it; no, really he couldn’t. It was when they started loading them into American ships that caused him to break down into wailing. He didn’t care if the other men saw. He lost too much to have the courage to stand up and smile. Ben however…a month before the boats arrived, the soldiers came into their rooms and woke him up, they dragged him out and Tom never saw them again.

The cold wind burned through his face. His long hair and beard rustled. He didn’t want to shave, didn’t want a bath. He screamed at the nurses on board one night “Not until I’m home! I’ll use my own bath!” he was wild around the entire ordeal. It wasn’t meant to be out of stubbornness, he was afraid it was a dream, he was scared he’d never see the beaches of North Avenue again. His eyes watered, there they were though; gold shimmering white sand, the sun beating down on it. The shining waves crashing against it. Seagulls cawing above him, welcoming his return. He smiled and laughed, he sobbed and continued to giggle. His comrades that peered over the metal railings too laughed and cried with him. They kissed and hugged one another, cheering. The men so caught in celebration joyfully began a round of singing out The Star-spangled Banner.

Tom couldn’t shut his eyes, no it was too precious to ever let a moment like this slip. His heart swelled with bright hope and deep love for the country he missed and took for granted.

The wooden blank was thrown down by the marines and each man walked down with the heroic strength embraced by dear America. Below, the crowd of hundreds bolted to each different soldier. Girlfriends, wives, children, mothers and fathers all holding one another…

Where was his welcome? His mother and sisters? He couldn’t find them, no matter how loud he screamed out for them. Running past families, after couples and war friends, he looked for them. He began to swell with guilt over his choice to refuse a bath. Maybe they didn’t recognise him? He smelt like ash and blood, his hair over grown and his arms and legs muscled yet far thinner since his departure.

He breathed in relief, home, they’re probably at home!

He remembered a time in which he was a boy with his sisters, running all home to their mothers cooking. He remembered the feeling of the race and the strength in his feet as they ran down the streets; passed all the ice-cream parlours into the neighbourhoods; where his sisters would challenge him to race against the postman’s bicycle. God what he’d do for a bicycle now. He felt the wind whipping his hair back and his heart thudding against his drum like the ticking of bombs. Sweat railed down his filthy cheeks. He needed to let them know he was home, he needed his mother’s cooking once again.

His feet hurt, but did he care? Not if it meant he could return to the beloved arms of his sweet home. Coming around the picket fences he rounded to the corner where the old home was. He slammed the gate open and bolted up the patio. His fist rained down onto the wood. Missing every part of home it felt like a life time since he’d seen it and yet also like it was yesterday when he kissed his mother goodbye. 

“Mom! Open the door! It’s me! Tom, I’ve returned Mom!” he yelled, not caring for the ears of the public. He was too excited to care at this point. “Mom!”

Receiving no answer he sighed and took a look through the house windows. It looked empty. The furniture was different, Thomas smiled; Mrs Hiddleston must’ve bought new stuff just to surprise him he assumed. He considered that they had all actually gone to the pier and he just didn’t look hard enough, but eventually they’d return and they’d all be together again.

A familiar bark caught his ears, along with the wet licking at his ankles. His blue eyes lit up like the fourth of July.

“Bobby?!” he clapped his hands and caught the little spaniel into his arms with a heavy ‘oof’.

Losing his balance the veteran tripped back on the step and fell onto his bottom, his dog only to attack his face with many sloppy kisses.

“I missed you, you little troublemaker!” he chuckled and scratched the dog beneath his chin. Bobby continued to happily yip at his owner, his tail wagging wildly at his find. Paw prints covered the man of action. Tom never realised how much he actually missed the family pet as much as he did now. He laughed madly and cradled the dog into his arms. More tears of relief melted down his cheeks, his faithful companion licking them up.

“Oh, Thomas dear is that you?” the sound of his once neighbours voiced was like music to his ears. His gaze picked up the garden on the other side of the fence where the elderly woman was watering her tulips.

“Mrs Dubose!”

He jumped up onto his feet like a spark of fire. Bobby in his arms, he ran down the stairs and across the yard, jumping the fence and putting the dog down. He laughed and launched for a large hug from the woman. Kissing her wrinkly cheeks he sighed with a large smile, “Are Sarah and Emma home? Where’s mom?”

The elderly woman was filled with shrills of laughter, her grey hair slipping from her head wrap.

However when the man gave her the eyes of a broken soul in yearning for his kin, she led him inside her home; belaying the tragic news over a cup of tea.

* * *

Thomas’ mind was in shambles. He felt heavy and sick. He felt cold and his chest ached. Tears bloomed in his eyes. Bobby yawned and curled up next to his feet to sleep.

“How long ago?”

The old lady leaned back in her rocking chair, her fingers tickling the rim of her saucer as she slowly told Thomas, “Little Emma went after a year that you left. Sarah managed for another three months and your poor mother went in her sleep after Sarah’s accident.”

“Telegraph said ‘Killed in Action’ my boy. It was a heavy price on their shoulders.”

His head buried into his hands and sobbed. He was now broken. The Japs could break his body but they never took his hope. Now due to the mix up between British and American military reports; he no longer had anything.

* * *

Mrs Dubose let him live with her for six months until she finally keeled over in her sleep like his own mother. He inherited her wealth and sold her home so that he could afford auditions again for the film industry.  

Bobby was his only company. His war buddies lost communication after he refused to reply to their letters. He was busy trying to survive as an actor again, climbing back on top.

He got his gigs and painted as a hero of war. A solider of honour, he felt weak though…he sometimes wish he had died in the war. Everything was so censored, no one understood the gruesome and cruelty he had suffered except for the men with him. He was forced to sign a contract to be ‘war friendly’ so that he didn’t frighten his feminine audiences. 

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoyed or no? (I'm still continue because I want too...)


End file.
